


The Provider

by dollylux



Series: Invisible Boy [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Barebacking, Bottom Sam, Bunker Fluff, Bunker Sex, Established Relationship, Felching, M/M, Schmoop, Thanksgiving, Thanksgiving Dinner, Timestamp, Top Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-27
Updated: 2014-11-27
Packaged: 2018-02-27 05:37:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2681033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dollylux/pseuds/dollylux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean have their first real Thanksgiving. (Timestamp for the Invisible Boy series.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Provider

**Author's Note:**

  * For [duende09](https://archiveofourown.org/users/duende09/gifts), [Exaggerated_Specificity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Exaggerated_Specificity/gifts).



> set in real time, at the bunker in 2014. I figure they deserve an angst-free, real Thanksgiving finally. :) 
> 
> Unbetaed! The mistakes are my own.

Sam’s not exactly a hard sleeper. Years of being a hunter and living with a gun in his hand have assured that. 

So when the smell of turkey wakes him up a couple of hours after dawn, it’s not a huge surprise that a smell woke him up. It is pretty alarming that there is the smell of anything cooking this damn early, so he opens his eyes, eyebrows drawing together immediately.

They use the kitchen in the bunker surprisingly often when they’re home, putting together modest attempts at meals: lasagna and chilli and truly impressive club sandwiches and pancakes. But they still stick pretty well to their ‘whoever topped last night makes breakfast’ rule, and they’d only snuggled down into the piles of covers, Dean’s head on his chest, and slept like two contented old (gay) men.

Sam digs around in the drawer on the dresser containing their combined sleep pants and he pulls on ones long enough to probably be his before he starts toward the kitchen.

Dean’s there at the island in a grey t-shirt and jeans, his hair sticking up in sleep-induced tufts, and he’s chopping celery.

Sam softens all over at the sight of him, the smallest smile tugging at his lips as he leans against the wood of the doorframe. Whether Dean ever wants to admit it or not, he’s a damn good cook, and he enjoys it more than he enjoys most other (legal) things. 

“You lookin’ at my ass?”

Dean’s voice is gruff because he hasn’t spoken yet this morning, and the grin that takes over Sam’s face is instantaneous. He pushes off of the doorframe with his shoulder and starts toward his brother who is still chopping calmly, who hasn’t turned around, who just knew Sam was there.

“Maybe.”

He keeps walking until he’s right up against Dean’s back, snugged right up, the perfect height to wrap his arms around him and hook his chin over Dean’s shoulder to look down at his large, steady hands carefully and confidently cutting vegetables. 

“Asslooker,” Dean mutters, completing the conversation, his body warming up to Sam’s, resting back against him just a little and exposing his neck for Sam’s mouth.

Sam obeys because Dean is what and who and where he worships, lets his lips trail soft from the collar of his shirt up the long, lightly freckled column of Dean’s neck and across his jaw before he rests his own scruffy cheek against Dean’s.

“What’re you making?”

“Stuffin’.”

Sam’s eyebrows tug together once again before his brain catches up, adding that word alongside the smell of turkey, and then he’s smiling again.

“It’s Thanksgiving, isn’t it?”

Dean snorts, finishing up the celery before he wipes his hands off slow and thorough on the towel beside the cutting board on the island, and only then does he turn in Sam’s arms and turn those bright eyes on him.

“Nothing gets by you, Sammy, I swear. Like a steel fuckin’ trap.”

Sam doesn’t take the bait, doesn’t let Dean worm his way out of discussing the fact that he’s making them Thanksgiving dinner, and his mile-wide grin probably says exactly that.

Dean sighs pre-emptively.

“Dean, are you--”

“Making us dinner for Turkey Day, yeah. Yes. All those pre-boxed dinners suck, and they charge a fucking obscene amount of money, and there’s no good diner nearby that’s open and--”

“Dean,” Sam whispers, ignoring the sting at the back of his eyes as he tightens his arms around Dean, comforted beyond all reason when he feels Dean’s arms slide around his waist and hook together at the small of his back.

“Don’t get all sappy on me, Sammy. I just figured, you know. We’re in a pretty good place this year, all things considered, and that we deserve this. Just a day off to watch the stupid parade on TV and some football and eat the moistest turkey in America.” Dean’s fingers are tickling along Sam’s bare back, nudging down closer and closer to Sam’s tailbone, making him arch without even realizing it.

“Let me help.” He lifts his eyes from his brother and looks around the kitchen, trying to guess the next step, what else needs to be done.

“Nope.” Dean shoves him then, gentle but it gets the job done. His green-smelling hands spread out on Sam’s chest and push him back toward the door. “I’m doing this for y--for us. I’ve got it, promise. Go back to our room and watch the parade. I’ll come get you when it’s time to set the table.”

Sam stands empty-armed a few feet from Dean but still can’t manage to take his eyes off of him, his chest aching with affection. He wants to stay in here and putter around and chop what Dean tells him to chop and arrange things on baking sheets and measure out herbs and spices, but he knows that Dean really likes this stuff, that he takes an amazing amount of pride in it, really. He smiles, still holding Dean’s gaze.

“Love you.”

Dean’s grin is immediate and undeniably adoring before he feigns exasperation, letting out a sigh before he turns back to his work, using the knife to gather all of the chopped celery into a pile.

“Go relax, Sammy. I’ve got this.”

_I’ve got you._

Sam retreats obediently, winding through the hallway to get to their room, and his smile is dazed. He climbs back into bed, snuggling down into the warm spot that’s still there, and he doesn’t even remember falling asleep.

 

\---

 

The second time he wakes up, it’s with Dean’s mouth on his own. He moans as he parts his lips to accept Dean’s tongue into his sleep-sour mouth, not even registering Dean’s hands around his waist, pushing his pajama pants down and off. Suddenly they’re both naked and those same hands are spreading Sam’s long legs so Dean can get between them, so he can snug his hipbones against the soft skin of Sam’s inner thighs and they can rut against each other, Sam half-hard and Dean already dripping, ready to go. Perfect.

“Gonna give me some ass, Sammy? I even made those crescent rolls you like.” 

“Give you anything you want,” Sam breathes against Dean’s full mouth while Dean pushes lubed-up fingers straight into his ass, massaging and slicking him up for cock. “Always give you anything you want.”

“That’s my boy.” Dean’s already breathless, like he was worked up about this for hours, and he pushes into Sam without a second more of preparation, his thick, bare cock nestling into Sam’s burning hot insides and digging in to fuck him into looseness immediately.

Sam reaches down for the covers and pulls them over Dean’s chilly bare back before he wraps his legs around Dean’s waist, arms around his neck, and just holds on. He loves that Dean knows just how much to make it hurt, that he’s relentless and savage in a way that carves Sam out, that leaves him sore for days. He doesn’t keep in the soft, breathy sounds that Dean works so hard to fuck out of him, those aching little sounds that mean that Sam needed this so bad, needed to be laid open just like this. 

They don’t talk through it like they used to, don’t whisper filth anymore (unless they’re drunk or stoned and strung out on each other and begging for it), they don’t make it a production or try to make it the best fuck the other one’s ever had. They just hold onto each other with grateful fingers, with tears burning behind closed eyes and make every single quiet animal sound between their ghosting mouths, and they let go in the safety of their clutching bodies.

Dean’s come seeps into him like warmth, something Sam always swears he can feel, and he digs his fingers into Dean’s back while Dean strains against him, buried so deep inside of him that the bed shakes with Dean’s tensed body. 

Sam gasps when he feels Dean pull out, when Dean is suddenly moving and shifting and sliding down his body and that beautiful mouth is wrapping around his aching, raw hole and sucking hard, greedy. Sam whines, both his hands flying down his body, one threading through Dean’s hair and hauling him in deeper and the other wrapping around his dick that is twitching and oozing slick, so fucking close already.

Dean sucks the come out of him relentlessly, tonguing his sore insides and kissing at his loose hole. He pushes Sam’s legs up and apart, giving himself more room to get at Sam’s ass. When he opens his eyes and looks up, their eyes meet and lock. Hold. 

“Keep going,” Sam whispers to him, jacking just the head of his dick, trying to keep all of his gasping breaths as quiet as possible so he can hear Dean’s hungry, wet sucking, so he can hear the secret licks of his tongue just as much as he can feel them. 

He comes with a sob that is as loud as a shout, his whole body bucking and writhing as he shoots his load all over himself, Dean somehow managing to hold on, to keep eating him out until he collapses back down on the bed, trembling all over now, his shaking hands stroking through Dean’s messy hair.

Dean keeps licking him out, making soft, pleased little sounds of his own, like he could do this all day, already prepared, home-cooked meal be damned. Sam melts back into the bed with a sigh, spreading his legs and just letting him.

They can always microwave it.

 

\---

 

“It smells so good, Dean.”

They do indeed have to throw everything in the microwave to warm it back up, and Sam insists on being the one to do it. He brings Dean his plate that is steaming hot once again, grinning for the hungry, focused look Dean has on the food. He goes back into the kitchen for his own plate and the two opened bottles of Sam Adams Octoberfest, sitting down gingerly across from his brother.

He lets out a breath and looks down at the food, at the bacon and garlic mashed potatoes, the green bean casserole, the honey glazed carrots, the mountain high pile of stuffing and the giant turkey legs on both of their plates, at the stack of crescent rolls on the plate between them. Dean did this, made all of this. Stood in their kitchen in their home and made this meal for them. 

Dean’s already digging in, shoving his fork into his mashed potatoes and stuffing it into his mouth, letting out a dreamy groan as he slumps back against the chair.

“Baaacon.”

Sam lifts up out of his seat just enough to lean across the inches separating them and kiss his brother’s garlicky mouth.

“Thank you.”

Dean’s eyes are almost literally sparkling while Sam returns to his seat and places his napkin across his lap, picks up his fork. Sam can feel those eyes on him when he gathers a bit of potatoes and stuffing and a carrot on his fork, blowing it off a little before he pushes it past his lips. He chews with relish, his eyes lazing happily as he swallows.

“Oh, Dean.”

Dean’s grin is dangerously pleased.

“Yeah?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Good.” Dean’s still beaming to himself as he returns to his own food, cutting a little turkey from the leg and eating happily.

“This is the first time we’ve had Thanksgiving together in--”

“Years,” Dean finishes for him, putting a couple of crescent rolls each on their plates. He wipes his fingers on his napkin every few seconds, his not-so secret cleanliness showing through and making Sam smile.

“You remember the last time you made Thanksgiving dinner for us?” The whole bunker is quiet except the table they’re sitting at where Dean’s got the Bears-Lions game playing on Sam’s laptop, the volume down low, the whistles and crowd cheering and the quiet voices of the commentators familiar, comforting.

Dean frowns as he thinks about it, constructing a tiny sandwich while he does out of turkey, potatoes, and a roll. He groans when he finally remembers, his cheeks pinking a little.

“Please tell me you’re not talking about that one time in Virginia when you were--”

“I was ten. It was snowing like crazy, and we were stuck. You walked down to that little grocery store and bought, like, five Hungry Man microwave turkey dinners, remember? You microwaved every one of them and put all of it in on paper plates.”

“I was a fucking idiot,” Dean grumbles around the last of his little sandwich, shifting around in his chair. “It would’ve been easier to make sandwiches or something.”

“But you wanted a real Thanksgiving dinner, like they had on all the shows. And it was pretty good. Really! Those dinners had everything. Gravy and everything. And you bought a pumpkin pie and Hawaiian rolls, ‘member?” Sam wipes his hand on his jeans before he reaches over for Dean’s hand that is gripping his napkin on his lap, tugging at his fingers until Dean relents and lets their hands slide together.

“The corn in those dinners always sucked.” Dean’s still eating with his right hand, biting into a carrot and studiously ignoring the flush that’s now trailing down his neck.

“Well, I thought it was amazing. And it meant a lot to me. It still does.” Sam falls quiet, feeling silly and sentimental and overwhelmed with sudden emotion for the man holding onto his hand.

“We aren’t going to take turns telling each other what we’re thankful for now, are we?” Dean’s voice is gruff but there’s a smile pulling at his lips, and it makes Sam grin.

“I don’t think we have to, do we? It’s kind of obvious.”

Dean groans but the smile is undeniable now. He scoots his chair closer to Sam until they’re side-by-side, their hands resting on Dean’s thigh. 

“Who knew we’d live to be sappy old bastards with grey in our hair, huh, Sammy?”

Sam snorts, bumping into Dean with his shoulder while he grabs his beer. “Speak for yourself, old man. I don’t have any grey hairs.”

“Happy Thanksgiving to you, too, buttface.” Dean knocks the neck of his beer bottle against Sam’s, and they glance over at each other at the exact same time, their smiles matching and overflowing with affection they don’t have to hide here in the safety of their home.

“Dillweed.”

Dean laughs, sharp and surprised.

“Assmunch.”

“Buttdumpling.”

“Bunghole.”

“Fartknocker.”

“Bitch.”

“Jerk.”


End file.
